


Not my first rodeo

by JoCarthage



Series: Long distances and close calls (2020 phone banking accountability fic series) [4]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Goat dressing, M/M, Meet-Cute, Queer Rodeo AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Alex goes to his first queer rodeo. A mysterious cowboy in a black Stetson invites him to the goat dressing competition.This is a real thing and I have gone to two, including one in Santa Fe: http://nmgra.org.--This is a fic series where, after each day of phone banking for the democratic ticket in the US's 2020 presidential election, I will write a fic that's 10x the number of calls I made. So if I make 14 calls, I write and post a 140 word fic. If I make 27 calls, a 270 word fic. If you'd like to start phone banking, you can sign-up for a good, comprehensive training here: https://demvolctr.org. One of my friends from high school is one of the trainers. The training is 40 minutes, then 40 minutes of making practice calls, then 15 minutes of debrief.A lot of what I'm doing when I talk to US-based voters is helping them figure out what the rules for voting in their state currently are, to help make sure every ballot gets counted. You can find information about that for your state, if you live in the US and can vote, here: http://iwillvote.com
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: Long distances and close calls (2020 phone banking accountability fic series) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970539
Comments: 26
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I made 68 calls, mostly into Wisconsin today, for a total of 327 calls so far. For the other people phone banking -- if you are open to sharing your number of calls/texts/postcards (either total, per week, per day) and if my style of writing is your jam, let me know what kind of fic you'd like in the comments or on tumblr (http://jocarthage.tumblr.com) and I'll try to write you a one-shot!
> 
> One of my rules for phone banking -- which I stole from Nancy Pelosi -- is to always end on a good call. That increases the likelihood I'll feel good about making calls the next time. To meet my personal goal for the numbers of voters I'm going to call, I need to may 66.5 (so, 67) calls a day every day between now and the end of the month. So today, when I had a good 68th call, I called it a day there.

Alex settled down on the dusty, half-filled bleachers at the 2019 Sante Fe Gay Rodeo Quarterfinals, not sure how long he'd stay. The municipal rodeo arena was outdoors, shoulder-high stock fencing enclosing a muddy field; there are vendors selling cowboy hats and "not my first rodeo" t-shirts and hotdogs and beer outside and inside, most of the people seemed to be in the participants waiting area or hanging around just outside of it. He was one of the few true spectators and he didn't much know what to expect. Sante Fe was the closest he would let himself live to Roswell anymore, after serving his 6 and getting the fuck out of the Air Force. That had been 5 years ago -- 5 years of college in Houston, grad school in Memphis, internships, and finally: a job as a small studio, working as half control room monkey, half session musician. He got to play music every week, help other people make records he loved, use the technical skills he'd started exploring in uniform, and go to bed in an apartment he paid for himself that no one he was related to knew the address of.

But in all that time of focus and study and hustle, he hadn't really explored this part of himself. Sure, he'd found touch and comfort where and when he could -- dancing at bars, going back to guys' places, porn. But this public stuff? Sober, multi-generational, community stuff? He'd never gotten into it.

Then, last week, he'd seen a flier at the studio. He figured the queer country band had snuck it onto the community billboard after recording their debut album during their weekly half-off session hours for emerging artists. And he'd -- he'd just kind of wondered. A little. A bit. What it would be like, not just to know for _himself_ but to be in a space, a real, open space, where everyone around him would just _know_.

He'd never had that. There'd been a moment -- maybe two -- in high school, when he'd tested the boundaries of how much crap he was willing to put up with to be himself in public. Turns out, the pain wasn't worth the prize. At least not then. He'd buttoned himself back up and got out as quick as he could. He was pretty sure he hadn't spoken a word to anyone who wasn't Maria DeLuca or Max Evans the entire last semester Senior year, he'd been so committed to surviving until graduation he hadn't had much room for anything else.

"Next up!" Blared the announcer interrupted the crackling sound of Lorde and Diana Ross, "We've got the community participation events! First: hula hooping!" Alex glanced around as some of the younger butch women on the other end of his bench whooped and began to rush towards the older woman with short hair, dressed in denim and leathers, riding across the outdoor stadium towards them on a white gelding, clipboard tucked into the front of her jeans.

The announcer continued: "And then! The fan favorite: goat dressing!"

The bench bounced under Alex's ass as the someone flopped down beside him, all long legs and curls under his black Stetson.

Alex scooted a little bit away, not sure why this guy had decided he needed to sit so close when there was so much open aluminum to choose from.

"That one's a team event," the other man drawled, kicking his dust-and-hay covered boots up onto the bench in front of them.

Alex raised an eyebrow.

The man kept talking: "I just finished the steer rastling," he said, gesturing broadly towards the lowing stock pen. "Placed first," he said with a soft smile and he tapped his large, incredibly shiny belt buckle.

"Congratulations," Alex said, keeping his voice neutral.

The man rolled his eyes a little. "It's just because Bonnie threw out her back in Austin; she wins it every time." But he smiled down at the buckle, rubbing a bit of imaginary dirt off the shine of the custom engraving. "Still, it's nice. You gonna enter? Get your own champion's buckle?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made 73 calls into North Carolina, for a total of 400 calls so far. For the other people phone banking -- if you are open to sharing your number of calls/texts/postcards (either total, per week, per day) and if my style of writing is your jam, let me know what kind of fic you'd like in the comments or on tumblr (http://jocarthage.tumblr.com) and I'll try to write you a one-shot!
> 
> Also, because this is an interesting snapshot:  
> \- Of the 73 calls, 17 connected with the right people (8 were with wrong numbers and 48 were hang-ups, dial tones, fax machines, voicemails, or breathing followed by a click.  
> \- Of the 17 I connected with, 1 was a republican and said he was refusing to vote at all this election.  
> \- 16 were democrats intending to vote for Biden/Harris  
> \- Of the 16 democrats, 5 had already voted. Note that early voting just starting last Thursday, so that's a *ton* of people voting early.  
> \- Of the 11 democrats who had not yet voted, 7 had a specific voting plan before I called. After I called, all of them but one particularly stubborn man had a voting plan (there's a lot of research showing that if someone promises to vote and has a plan, they're much more likely to do so).
> 
> I don't want to give false hope, but to quote President Obama, there has never been anything false about hope. Every time I make these calls, I have a little more hope. I've volunteered in every election since I turned 18, in big and small ways, and I have never seen so many people having already voted at this stage in a cycle. Because the plural of anecdote isn't data, here's some numbers that match my experience: as of yesterday, 26 million people had voted early, which is 6x more than had done so by this point in 2016: https://www.npr.org/2020/10/18/924182086/early-voting-analysis-historic-turnout-drives-long-lines-administrative-errors. 
> 
> So have hope, my friends, and keep working.
> 
> Now, onto the goat dressing :P.

Alex's voice was low under the clatter of cowboy boots on the stands, heading down to sign-up for the goat dressing competition: "So, if you can knock over a 700lb steer with your bare hands, why do you want to bother a goat?"

The man turned to him, leaning back a little. Alex realized he was mirroring him, backing up a little to give him space to breathe. He felt a flutter of something under his breastbone.

The man's tone matched his too, lower and a little wry: "If I thought you'd hula hoop, I'd ask you to do that too." 

Alex rolled his eyes and the man grinned. "What, you think this rodeo is just brimming over with beautiful men in Death Cab shirts and eye-liner?"

Alex glanced down: he hadn't made much of an effort to fit-in. He kind of figured he should be accepted here-- or not -- based off of his orientation, not his adherence to faux-wild west dress codes.

"Who goes looking for punks at a rodeo?" Alex asked, a bit of acid in his voice. "You'd be better off fishing at Meow Wolf on half-off nights."

"Ah," the man said, "But I don't want a punk who only likes to go where punks are; I want someone with expansive tastes."

The announcer crackled across the rickety stadium: "Only 5 minutes left to sign-up for the goat dressing competition!"

He bent closer and this time, Alex mirrored him. The rich air between them smelled just a bit like hay and quite a lot like working man.

"So, what do you say," he said, breath warm against Alex's cheek. "Want to put some underwear on a goat?"

Alex huffed a laugh, voice low: "Is _that_ what 'goat dressing' is?"

"Sure," he said gesturing to where two drag queens were leading two grumbly goats to the center of the muddy ring. The butch women on the white gelding trotted towards them, an unopened pack of what looked like tighty-whities tucked between her hips and the saddlehorn. He continued: "Cheryl blows the whistle, then each team runs a 100 feet, puts the underwear on the goat, then runs back. Fastest pair wins."

And Alex flinched inside, feeling a stab of saudade he'd thought he'd let go of long ago.

He shook his head, wrapping his knuckles on his prosthetic: "I can't run 100 feet on broken ground."

The man paused and then settled back easily, elbows on the bleachers behind them. "I've had enough of livestock of any size to last me a season. Want to place bets on who'll win?"

And it wasn't how his body stretched -- long and lean and hard and close -- that convinced Alex. It wasn't his confidence or his crooked smile or his dusty black hat. It was how he made Alex's shoulders ease, his mouth feel soft; like he carried a bubble of protective comfort around him and if Alex could only get close enough, he could taste it.

Alex leaned back beside him, a cautious inch between their elbows. "Depends on the stakes."

The man tipped his head to the side, sliding Alex an easy grin. "Loser buys the winner a beer."

"Make it a whiskey, neat, and you've got a deal."

Alex leaned towards him, just barely brushing his upper arm against the other man's: "I need to know the name of the man who's going to be buying me liquor," he said, watching as the last of the contestants signed-up.

"I'm Michael," he said, closing the distance to press the long line of his arm against Alex's, bringing with him a cascade of warmth through his entire body.

He had to clear his throat to get the words out: "I'm Alex."

They watched as denim-clad contestants climbed over the stockades and into the ring, Alex feeling every inch of skin where their arms pressed together. The drag queens organized the contestants into two long lines, pairs against pairs.

Michael murmured: "My first bet's on the left-hand team; that cowgirl in the jorts looks like she knows how to hustle."

"I'll take that bet," Alex said, sticking his hand out. Michael took it, palm warm and dry and fitting just, so perfectly against his.

A dozen bets won and lost later -- and a dozen pairs of underwear wrestled onto and back off of indignant goats -- Alex was still holding Michael's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Top quotes from today's phone banking:  
> \- Delphina (98): "Well, I tell you, I was born a democrat. I've been a democrat all of my life. I've been a southerner all my life. Any southerner with any sense is a democrat. I am 98 years old, I have hardly missed any elections in my whole life. I can't drive right now, because my hands don't work, they shake. I've driven all my life and I miss driving. I will have to find someone to drive me to the polls. I have never failed to vote. I've been in the hospital two times and still voted. I like to think in all time time, I've done my political duty."  
> \- Patricia (87): "I want to get that president out of there."

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued tomorrow!  
> \--  
> Top quote from today's phone banking:  
> \- Glenna: "I am concerned about getting sick. I am concerned about putting things in the mail. I just don't know what's going to get rejected."
> 
> Like I said at the top, a lot of what I'm doing when I talk to US-based voters is helping them figure out what the rules for voting in their state currently are, to help make sure every ballot gets counted. You can find information about that for your state, if you live in the US and can vote, here: http://iwillvote.com


End file.
